


Badass

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: BAMF Foggy Nelson, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 14:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank Castle has developed a bit of a habit.





	Badass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahimsabitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/gifts).



> For ahimsabitches, who requested on Tumblr: FOGGY NELSON IN A MOMENT OF UNEXPECTED BADASSERY. 
> 
> Foggy Nelson is a BAMF.

Frank had mixed feelings about Foggy Nelson.

He was a lawyer, and really that said enough. Worse, he was a lawyer who believed in the system his career was tailored to. He was an idylist who played at pessimism, bemoaning each turn in fortune while clearly comfortable in the thought that it was all going to work out for the best. He nagged and he badgered and he tutted over every decision anyone made that he didn’t agree with, all with that lawyerly air of self-righteousness. He honestly, sincerely believed that there was nothing so wrong with the justice system or the government at large that a few well meaning insiders couldn’t fix it.

And he was kind. Sweet in a way that was obviously a choice -- he could have hardened, could have gone bitter by this point in his life, but he chose not to. He was loyal; far more loyal than Frank thought Red deserved. He mourned the death of a client like he might have mourned the loss of a close family member. He cared, honestly and deeply, about the state of the world and tried, even if it was stupid to think he could, to change things while working within the system.

Karen liked him, and that was a heavy point in his favor, tipping the scale just enough for Frank to consider him as a decidedly good man.

Frank knew well enough that this good man didn’t really need someone watching out for him. He didn’t exactly lead a dangerous life. It was just that Frank had developed a sort of… habit.

He’d heard about Red’s untimely death -- how could he not? Karen was broken up about it for one thing, but also -- well, a whole building had come down. Sort of made it to the news, that kind of shit.

What possessed him the first time to track down Nelson, Frank couldn’t honestly say. He didn’t owe Red shit, owed Nelson less, but in a way it had seemed like the right thing to do. Make sure he was safe and taking care of himself.

What Frank had started doing was, he’d set himself up somewhere high, and keep an eye through a scope on the man. The routine was relatively simple, and the view had the advantage that, if Frank noticed something hinky that he could deal with, he could lower the scope and get there relatively quick.

Habits were, almost uniformly, a bad thing for vigilantes to get into. Frank had figured that out pretty quick. You get into a habit, bad guys pick it up and adjust their shit accordingly, and then your habit either gets you hurt, you lose your target, or both. And yet, still, he returned to this spot once a week to check on Nelson, watch him leave his office, walk to a bar -- bar looked like a dive, but Frank sort of added that to the points in Nelson’s favor, so what did it matter? -- drink for a few hours, and then walk home.

This pattern was rarely deviated from. Tonight seems to be no exception, Frank maneuvering to suck down some coffee while he remains in his perch, watching the bar. Midnight draws near and Nelson emerges. He walks straight and with his head down cast, an umbrella clutched in one hand and a briefcase in the other; for all the time he spends in the bar, he never seems to allow himself get really drunk. Going by the stories Karen has shared, Frank assumes this is a new lease on the concept of self control. Again, tonight promises no exceptions, and Frank starts to think maybe it’s time to go cold turkey on this stupid habit, when someone screams. It’s faint up where Frank is, but it must be loud for Nelson because he jumps and the twists around, looking for the source.

Frank finds it first; an alley half a block up from where Nelson stands, a young woman slammed into a wall. There are two thugs on her, one in a denim jacket with ‘DON’T TREAD ON ME’ stitched across his shoulders and the other with an honest to god swastika tattooed on the back of his bald head. He feels his trigger finger twitch and wishes desperately that his scope were attached to an actual rifle right now because there was no way he could get from here to there before these assholes hurt the girl.

Impulsively, he turns the scope back toward Nelson, almost losing him. He’d assumed the lawyer would figure out something bad was going on and turn around, find a safe place to call the cops from. Nelson is a good guy, but he’s not a fighter. He shows none of the signs of wanting to stick his neck out that way.

So what Frank expects to see is Nelson hurrying in the opposite direction of the danger, phone out, thumb dialing 911. He expects it so much that he actually thinks that is what he’s seeing for a second, before it registers that Nelson is actually heading toward the assholes. Frank curses a low noise and drops the scope for a moment. He’s halfway packed up when he hears another scream, and hastily looks back through the scope, refocusing on the alley, expecting the worst.

Again, he does not get what he expects, but this time he’s grateful.

There’s blood on the ground -- he doesn’t want to admit to the way his heart seizes up funny at the sight, worry washing over him for the whole two seconds it takes to find the source -- and a little splashed on the sidewalk outside the alley. Baldy-with-the-swastika-tattoo is prone on the ground, half in, half out of the alley, and his tattoo is obliterated, it’s just _fucking_ gone, replaced by a bloody red mark. The girl is screaming because she’s thrown herself at Denim Jacket, scratching at his face, while Nelson stands there, his umbrella bent to complete uselessness, bloody in his hands. Frank squints through the scope and thinks he can see cane marks -- or, rather, umbrella marks -- across the back of Baldy’s head.

Nelson is waiting until he has an opening, the girl ducking out of the way, and then he hauls back, swinging his bent umbrella hard across Denim Jacket’s face, which is already bloody from his would-be victim’s nails. Denim Jacket goes down on one knee, the world’s ugliest proposal in progress, and as Frank watches, Nelson clocks him with a downward blow of the umbrella. It must be some kind of self-defense material for it not to have busted completely, but it’s definitely bent out of shape as Nelson tries to catch his breath.

Frank realizes he’s grinning, crouched at the edge of his little perch. Nelson looks at the girl, who is breathing hard and looks wild-eyed with adrenaline, and nods when she speaks. She backs away and then takes off running toward the bar; Nelson finally pulls out his phone and makes that call.

Frank has mixed feelings about Foggy Nelson. He’s still a lawyer, still a nag, still an optimist pretending not to be one. But Frank’s starting to find those things matter a little less, because at his roots, Nelson is genuinely a good man, brave and loyal and honest.

And maybe, Frank thinks, a little bit of a badass.


End file.
